This is a love story about the people struck down by coronavirus. It’s about those who take COVID-19 seriously, those who don’t, and how that divide breaks uncomfortably along racial lines.
The opposition to Black voters in Mississippi has changed since the 1960s, but it hasn’t ended. On the eve of the most divisive presidential election in decades, voters face obstacles such as state-mandated ID laws that mostly affect poor and minority communities and the disenfranchisement of tens of thousands of formerly incarcerated people.
In Vienna, Illinois, no one talks openly about the violence that drove out Black residents 66 years ago, or about how it became a "sundown town." The town is still grappling with racial tensions today.
In the end, it wasn’t the struggles of Tasha Lamm's family that stood out most in their little house in Appalachian Ohio. It was love.
Here in the little towns that speckle the Appalachian foothills of southeast Ohio, events that have defined 2020 nationwide are mostly just images on TV from a distant America.
Migrants and asylum-seekers are crossing a treacherous part of the Atlantic to reach the Canary Islands. This route has become one of the most dangerous to European territory. Many never make it.
It’s a common misconception that homeless people are unemployed, but between 25% to 50% of this population works, according to experts. In the era of COVID-19, that means many homeless employees are working low-wage essential jobs under conditions that put them at risk of catching or spreading the virus.
More than 200 homeless people are known to have died so far in the COVID-19 pandemic, yet they remain largely invisible victims. Across the U.S., communities have struggled to protect their homeless residents.
Decades of progress in one of modern history’s greatest achievements, the fight against extreme poverty, are in danger of slipping away because of the COVID-19 pandemic.
All around the world, the coronavirus and its restrictions are pushing already hungry communities over the edge, cutting off meager farms from markets and isolating villages from food and medical aid.
For as long as Mexicans have gone north to find work, money has gone in the opposite direction. But these days, fear accompanies the money that crosses the border. And it travels both ways.
As the coronavirus spreads, soaring demand for oxygen is bringing out a stark global truth: Even the right to breathe depends on money. In much of the world, oxygen is expensive and hard to get.
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